


One touch from you and I'm home

by myrish_lace



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hair Brushing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Jon Snow is King in the North, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon and Daenerys are also in a relationship here, Jon and Daenerys have sex just fyi, Jon and Sansa are endgame, Lies, One Shot, Pining, Post-Season/Series Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 23:47:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12641754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrish_lace/pseuds/myrish_lace
Summary: Jon Snow has taken Sansa Stark's advice and seduced Daenerys Targaryen to secure her dragons and her army. He struggles to maintain the illusion that he cares for Daenerys, when his heart secretly belongs to Sansa. As a small act of rebellion he refuses to take his hair down when he beds Daenerys. Once Jon returns to Winterfell, he seeks out Sansa to try to apologize for what he's done. When Sansa asks to brush his hair, Jon lets his guard down with his sister in a way he cannot with his lover.





	One touch from you and I'm home

**Author's Note:**

> Jon didn't even take his hair down during boatsex, and that detail has bothered me ever since. Hence this story, which tries to make sense of that choice.
> 
> All, this is the first fairly negative fic I've written about Daenerys, so if that's not your thing, please stop reading. Also, moderated commenting is on, becsuse apparently we can't all play nice. Please be respectful. Thank you!
> 
> I'm myrish-lace-love on tumblr if you want to say hi!

The sea was a roiling mass of green and grey beneath the boat’s hull. Jon ignored the waves, shielding his eyes and squinting into the setting sun. The captain had assured him they’d see White Harbor tonight, or tomorrow at the latest. The winds had been favorable during their journey.  He was desperate to see the shore, for more reasons than one.

Daenerys sidled up to him, looping her arm through his.

“Come to bed, Jon. Landfall will be here soon enough.” Her red cloak fluttered in the breeze. She tugged at him, amused but impatient.  “Come on now.”

Jon shoved down his frustration and strolled back to their cabin with her on his arm. He dreaded what came next.

Jon lived each day with the shame that he gave away his kingdom to a foreign queen, to ensure his family’s safety. He thought the most painful sacrifice would be bending the knee. That betrayal had sliced through him like a hot knife. But the constant facade he had to maintain with Daenerys was somehow worse.

Hold up a mirror, Sansa had told him before he set sail for Dragonstone. Men love to see themselves reflected back in a rosy light. If you must, sell her a version of herself that’s finer and grander than who she is. She’s dangerous. Get what you need from her. Secure the dragons and the weapons. Then keep her close.

He’d followed Sansa’s advice, after all his other efforts had failed. He fed Daenerys stories of how special she was, how precious, and she lapped them up like cream. But she wanted more of him, all of him, and was determined to have him yield.

Tonight she combed her hair in the moonlight, in long inviting strokes. She urged him to brush it for her, even sat next to him on the bed. He was sure other men would have fought and died for the privilege. But he couldn’t tell her he wished her silver locks were red. He couldn’t tell _himself_ that.

Instead, he murmured that he’d only get it tangled, and beckoned her closer. She came willingly, but turned her attention to his hair. She wouldn’t be dissuaded. Daenerys, he’d learned, was accustomed to getting her way. She reached up and tried to untie the knot that held his hair back.

He grabbed her hand instead, and kissed her wrist.

“No. I can’t. It’s...a warrior tradition from north of the Wall.”

Daenerys’s violet eyes gleamed. “Tell me more, Jon.” She stroked his cheek.

Jon felt sick, not for the first time. He did not love her, but he did not enjoy lying to her. She’d shared much with him on this journey. He knew how her braids, adorned with bells, represented her victories. She clearly cared for him. She was trying.  

He had to extend the same courtesy to her, to preserve the illusion. There were no easy choices anymore in this war.

“A man keeps his hair bound back from his eyes, so he can see clearly. He can’t let it down in someone else’s presence, not even with his lover, or he loses some of his power.” He smiled at her. Each day, his lies because more fluid, seamless. Daenerys nodded, satisfied, and pulled him down for a kiss.

Such an insignificant act of rebellion. But preserving his hairstyle was a way for him not to be completely exposed in Daenerys’s presence, to still see an echo of Ned Stark’s son when he looked in the mirror. He sorely needed that reminder. There was so little within his control now. Ho could cling to something of himself, even he and Daenerys were naked together under the furs and she rode him.

***

Daenerys insisted on taking the Lord’s Chambers when her retinue arrived. Before Jon could change her mind she barged through the door, startling Sansa. Sansa recovered quickly, smoothing out her skirts, and gracefully yielded the room. Jon shot Sansa a desperate look, _I did what you asked, Sansa, but I didn’t expect this_.

Sansa only murmured to Jon that perhaps he would like to look in on Bran, and see if the fever had broken. Jon took his leave of Daenerys, telling her to settle in. He heard Daenerys ordering tapestries hung on the walls as he and Sansa stepped into the corridor.

The hallway was bustling. Servants, lords and ladies attended to Winterfell’s business. Some shot Jon and Sansa pointed looks. Jon’s decision to yield Winterfell had met with fierce resistance. He'd quickly gleaned that Sansa’s firm and vocal support had stemmed the tide.

“The Maester tends to Bran in here, Jon.” Sansa swung open the door.

Bran’s room was bright, the curtains flung open to let in the afternoon light. Jon’s heart ached to see his brother confined to bed, just as he’d been when Jon left for the Wall.

He knelt by Bran’s side. Bran’s forehead was hot. Sansa handed him a basin of water and a strip of linen. Jon wrung out the cloth and placed it on his brother’s brow.

“His fever’s lessened, but it may be a few more days before he wakes.” Sansa fidgeted. “He had something he very much wanted to tell you, Jon, before he fell ill, but I don’t know what it was.”

“It’s all right, Sansa. What matters now is that he gets better. I’m sorry about today, about your rooms.”

Sansa’s face was composed. “They’re her rooms now. Both of yours. Don’t worry, Jon. I’d relocated most of my things already. I should have anticipated you could arrive as soon as today. I’ll leave you and Bran together. Perhaps...when you have a moment, today or tomorrow, you might come see me?”  For a moment Jon let himself believe he saw a flash of hope in Sansa’s eyes.

He lingered by Bran’s side until nightfall. Finally he stood, and kissed Bran’s brow.

“Come back to us Bran. I have adventures to tell you, and I want to hear yours too.” They’d both changed, irrevocably, but Bran was still his little brother, and safe at Winterfell, thank the gods.

He paused in the hallway, unwilling or unable to return to the Daenerys. He suspected he knew where Sansa had taken up residence. _I’ll check on her. See if she’s well, if she needs anything._ Jon sighed. Any excuse, as long as he could see her again tonight. 

*******

Jon’s chest ached as he climbed the wide staircase on the western side of the castle. Sansa had returned to her old chambers, the ones she’d had as a girl.  They weren’t right for the Lady of Winterfell. He’d thought so since they won their home back, and insisted she take the Lord’s Chambers.

But now he’d displaced her. And it tore him apart, even though she’d encouraged the plan. He was dangerously close to tears when she answered the door.

She took one look at his face and quickly drew him inside. She’d already made the rooms hers again. There was a vase of dried flowers perched on her bedside table, and her sewing was rolled away neatly and stowed in a trunk near the fire.

“What’s wrong, Jon?” A faint line creased her forehead. She rubbed the side of her neck absently. Jon remembered that movement from when they were children. She was tired, and trying not to show it.

He opened his mouth to explain, to apologize. _I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, you deserve better, I missed you so much_. But no words came.

Sansa’s cheeks were rosy in the firelight. Finally she broke the silence. She reached out, skimming his hair hesitantly.

“I just – there are knots – would you – could you take it down?”  

His fingers flew to the string of their own accord before she finished speaking.  He couldn’t deny her this. He couldn’t deny her anything. The soft gasp Sansa made when his hair fell in his eyes made him shiver. She carefully, carefully swept his curls from his brow, without touching his skin. The air was thick between them, and her blue eyes were dark.  

They were inches apart and he wanted, gods, he _wanted_ her, ached for her, but he didn't move.

Sansa cleared her throat. “Could I help you with them, Jon?”

Jon took her hand. She led him over to the fire, and bade him sit at her feet. Jon settled quickly in front of her, before either of them could change their minds. The flagstones were cold, but the fire popped and crackled.

When he leaned against her leg and felt the heat of her skin through the fabric, it took all his willpower not to turn his head and rub his cheek against the wool of her skirt. He thanked the gods he was facing away from her, or she’d likely see how utterly she wrecked him. How much he loved her, in a wrong and twisted way.

Sansa worked through the tangles with her fingers, scratching his scalp gently. She began to pull the brush through his hair. Each rhythmic stroke swept away the pain of the journey. Jon slowly relaxed.

“She's been neglecting her duties,” Sansa said lightly, with only a hint of bite.

“Who?” Jon had almost fallen asleep, lulled by her warmth and her touch.

“Your lover,” Sansa said. “She should tend to your hair better. Keep it trimmed, work out the knots.”

“She doesn't have the chance,” he murmured. He was dreamy, sluggish, drugged by the motion of the brush through his hair.

Sansa's hands faltered. “Why not?”

Jon flushed. “I don't let it down when we...”

 _When I take her to bed_.

Even Sansa couldn’t prevent the awkward pause that follows.

“...Never? Not once?”

“It's … so I don't lose myself, when … I need something to hold onto, to get through it. It’s...part of the North, Sansa. It’s a piece of the North that I keep to myself. That I don’t share with her.”

Sansa hummed, and started to brush again. “Yet you let it down easily for me.”

He glanced up at her then. “You are the North, Sansa. You are the North to me.” She smiled at him. Her blue eyes were soft and sweet. He’d been desperate for landfall for many reasons, but this was the true one, the deepest one, being able to gaze into Sansa’s eyes again.

It unfurled in his chest that this was how it was supposed to feel, with someone you loved. Safe and protected and free at the same time. He guarded himself around Daenerys, as if she was a caged animal waiting to strike.

Dangerous, to give these feelings free reign. He swallowed, and looked down at the flagstones.

“I’m almost done, Jon. Just let me bind it back for you.”

He readied himself to stand when she pulled the string tight. Then he felt the slightest pressure as Sansa rested a hand on his shoulder.

Sansa pressed a kiss to the top of his hair, feather light. Jon’s breath hitched. That small touch felt more intimate than all the nights he’d spent in Daenerys’s bed. He stilled, enchanted, at Sansa's feet.

_I love you. I want to stay here, with you, lean my head on your knee and keep you close._

Sansa’s hand started to tremble.  He took a deep breath and covered Sansa’s hand with his own. She laced her fingers with his. They were on the cusp, halfway there and halfway back. More than siblings, less than lovers. It would only be a matter of seconds to tip his head up and kiss her.

But one kiss from her lips would awaken a fire inside him that would never stop burning, and that was why he could not start.

 _Also_ , whispered a voice, much farther away than it should be, _you share your bed with another woman, a queen, a stranger_.  

He gathered his composure and took his leave, thanking Sansa at the door.

“Goodnight Jon. You – if you want – I could –“ Sansa was so rarely at a loss for words.  Jon realized this interlude might be a balm for her too, a respite. 

“Might I come by tomorrow, Sansa?” His voice was gentle, low, and full of hope.

Sansa gave him a small smile. “Yes, Jon, you may.” He was relieved he could still bring her happiness.

And so, for a brief time until Bran’s fever broke, the King in the North gave his nights and his white lies to Daenerys, and his heart to his sister Sansa.


End file.
